Hello Silmarillion Fandom! This is your reminder that Feanorian week will be taking place next month. Below are updated prompts (you are still allowed to suggest prompts)! When is it?: March 23rd, 2026—March 29th, 2026
The prompts are as followed:
Day 1- Maedhros - > Childhood, Kingship, Angband, Coping, The Union, Relations with Different Races
Day 2-Maglor -> Childhood, Spouse, Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s Gap, Redemption
Day 7- Nerdanel and Feanor-> Mahtan, Finwe & Indis, Marriage, Reunion, Traveling, Creation, Healing
Rules: You are allowed to post anything fanrelated on the days. If the prompts are not to your liking, you can do your own thing. The tracktag is #feanorianweek. Tag your work accordingly! Have fun and be nice to others. Disrespect towards others will not be tolerated.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Amras & Amrod (Tolkien), Ambarussa & Nerdanel (Tolkien), Ambarussa & Fëanor (Tolkien), Ambarussa & Ambarussa (Tolkien)
Characters: Amrod (Tolkien), Amras (Tolkien), Ambarussa (Tolkien), Ossë (Tolkien), Fëanor (Tolkien), Nerdanel (Tolkien), Námo | Mandos (Tolkien)
Additional Tags: Fix-It, But also, Canon Compliant, if you consider Pengolodh just wouldn’t know about this, and if you consider the shibboleth of feanor canon, not crispy amrod not toasted amrod but a new kind of amrod that i’m calling, blanched amrod, put that elf in the water, Not Really Character Death, but they do think he’s dead, Accidentally Faked Death, Grief/Mourning, Unreliable Narrator, Fëanorian Week 2026 (Tolkien), Fëanorian Week (Tolkien), gratuitous “rime of the ancient mariner” references
Summary:
The boats burn, and Amrod is nowhere to be found.
Because he has already stolen a little swan-boat, and is heading to Valinor.
Shows up to @feanorianweek Day 6: Amrod and Amras two days late with a soggy, strangely non-crispy Amrod and a fic twice as long as I had planned. Sorry!
The twins spy land ahead, their fear subsiding along with the tempestuous waves. The end of a terrifying journey. They discuss how swiftly they will defeat the enemy, the bliss and freedom they were promised.
Yes, we have seen enough sorrows! It was a hard road but victory is soon in our grasp!
Their brothers do not take them as seriously as they would like, but they convince themselves they are just as strong and brave. They convince themselves they made the right choice.
for Day 7 of @feanorianweek, also available on Ao3
When Nerdanel first met Fëanáro, a bright apprentice of her father with a worker’s rough hand and the unshed mannerisms of a prince, both Cólemano and Tennawen were unsettled ever-shifting daemons yet. They were impressed by one another’s work, and soon enchanted by the other’s sharp wit, always drawn to each other’s orbit and gladly so.
The day Cólemano and Tennawen settled, a mere hour’s distance between them, the two crafters were wedded that very eve, on the waxing bloom of Telperion’s light.
They emerged back to Tirion society as newly turned adults and husband and wife, becoming instantly the main topic of scandal and gossip for an entire year.
Oh, handsome and brilliant Fëanáro, already destined to be the greatest of the Noldor. It only made sense that Tennawen would settle as a beautiful hummingbird, her shimmering iridescent feathers dancing in rainbow gleams at the rapid beat of her wings, as if dusted by the crushed powder of jewels. A royal daemon, a dazzling match to charming Fëanáro.
How unfortunate that his wife was so plain. What did he see in her anyway? And what was her daemon? An Olyphaunt, but small? Such an awkward thing. As strange as Fëanáro’s choice to wed Nerdanel.
Neither Fëanáro nor Nerdanel paid heed to the whispers.
“You are wonderful, arimelda,” Fëanáro kissed his wife. “Wonderful and wise, as is Cólemano’s settled animal. While Tennawen is as quick as a thought and an inspiration for jewel craft, she’s not so helpful in hauling stone and fetching tools as Cólemano is. And how sensible of him to choose a species of Oliphaunt that fits through our bedroom door.”
~*~
Seven sons and three Silmarils later, the strife was not only felt in Tirion’s streets, not only between the House of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë, but also between Fëanáro and Nerdanel. Once her husband drew a sword to her law-brother’s neck, she could not abide by him any more, and left for her parent’s house.
“He has lost all his sense,” she broke marble under her hammer without any aim to create. “My word used to mean something in his ear. Tennawen used to make sure I was heard.”
“We will wait for their senses to return,” Cólemano gently said. “But we do not have to wait right beside them. He has hurt you enough, whether he realises it or not.”
But waiting did not make things any better. The world went dark and grew worse, and now her husband and every single one of her sons had left her for madness and war.
“What now? What now?” Nerdanel wiped away her silent tears. “What is there left?”
With his trunk the dwarf Oliphaunt brushed the tangled auburn strands from her wet face.
“Now we must live and endure.”
~*~
When the letter came that he was to be returned from Mandos, Nerdanel burned the paper just to make sure it was real. She regretted it as soon as it turned to ash.
Ages, she had waited. All her sons had returned to her one by one, even if some had taken their time. She was even richer with an ill-gained by kidnapping but well beloved grandson on top of it. She supposed she had peace enough in her heart to meet with her stupid husband and see if something of their love could be salvaged. He had made her wait, after all.
Nerdanel did not know what it was like within Mandos, but she had seen plenty of her nephews and niece and sons emerging from it. Some walked out unchanged, looking the same as the day they had left for Beleriand. Others carried the scars and marks they had sustained in life or had died with. Some came out with their daemons shifting, as if they were truly reborn like a babe, settling in a number of hours or days. Usually in the shape they had been settled before. On the very rare occasion, into a shape much different than before.
Which was why it didn’t come as such a surprise when the gates opened, that Tennawen flew out first before her elf, and after a few flaps of her hummingbird wings she shifted into the small speck of light of a firefly. She floated around Cólemano’s head once or twice, then hovered anxiously in front of Nerdanel, before landing on her finger when offered.
“I’m sorry,” the firefly said, and she could barely make herself any smaller even if she tried.
A moment later Fëanáro himself emerged. Head held high and striding forth with pride, but when he glanced at Nerdanel he could not meet her eyes.
“Nerdanel…” his first word in his second life, and he trailed off. Nerdanel did not answer, just waited for what he would say. She had waited all this time.
“I cannot apologise enough to you… and to others. For how I have behaved. For our sons…”
“Have you learned your lesson?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Will you ignore my words again?”
“No,” he said.
“Then for goodness sake, stop acting like a wounded dog!” Nerdanel cried, glaring down at the pitiful little light on her finger. “I do not need you changed, just for you to be open again where you once started closing doors. I need the nér that I fell in love with, not some different person.”
Tennawen quickly shifted, a hummingbird once more, delicately perched atop Nerdanel’s hand. She did not shift ever again.
Last drabble for this year's @feanorianweek. The GUY himself, in 100 words of childhood foreshadowing.
Infant Fëanáro rolls, for the first time, chasing Laurelin’s golden spangles. He crawls first, with purpose, toward Telperion’s spilled silver pools on the palace tiles.
He lays his chubby hands on his father’s cheeks and peers deep into one eye, and then the other.
“Why, Atya?” he asks. “Why are they so bright?”
Míriel watches from her cushioned chair and tugs her many shawls a little tighter. It is a comfort to her: knowing him to be so curious and happy.
If she leaves him – when she leaves - he will be safe, embraced and nourished by those sweet, undying lights.
for Day 6 of @feanorianweek, also available on Ao3
The twins were well liked and accepted among the Nandor of Ossiriand. Their prowess at hunting and their respect of nature quickly endeared them to the Green Elves, and what little Noldor ingenuity in crop maintenance and harvesting Ambarussa introduced that fit their way of life ensured a friendly relationship between their peoples. Amrod and Amras freely shared what craft, knowledge, or piece of their culture the Nandor showed interest in, and they received much the same in return, trading and learning of one another.
It was for this friendship that the Fëanorian twins were allowed into their more secretive practices.
“Witches?” Amras asked, sitting under the starlit sky, brushstrokes of swirling constellation stretching out from the infinite Western horizon to the towering Blue Mountains to the East. Sartë leisurely circled around the elves, admiring the landscape while keeping guard.
“Like Artanis?” Amrod wondered aloud. Lentissë, his oxpecker daemon, took flight from her wildebeest sister’s horn to settle in the red crown braid of her elf’s hair.
The tribe elder, Iorthonel, sat cross-legged before the twins with her spotted owl daemon on her shoulder. She inclined her head with a shrug, bobbing the owl’s body up and down with the motion, though his head remained in place like it was pinned to that exact point in the fabric of space. “Perhaps,” Iorthonel said, never having met Ambarussa’s half-cousin Galadriel to accurately confirm one way or another. “I do not know what the Noldor define what makes a witch and what skills they hone. In my tribe, a witch is they who sees beyond what is, who walks unremarked if they will, whose word nature listens to, whose daemon flies far outwith their own sight.”
Amrod and Amras shared a look of surprise.
“Artanis certainly sees into the hearts of others and has the gift of foresight. Last we heard of her, she’s been taken under the tutelage of Queen Melian herself. But to be separated from one’s daemon to such long distances without pain or risk of death? That is unheard of!” Amrod said.
Iorthonel waved dismissively. “So your Powers over in the West know not the full limits and potential of the Quendi. With how they coddle you there in your recountings, I say that is in line with their typical ignorance. I assume that your cousin’s daemon is some type of flighted bird.”
The twins nodded. “A trumpeter swan.”
“Then she is most certainly a witch, and I am sure that if she were to be taught the ways of safe separation and far ranging from ones daemon, she would be capable of it. And I believe so could you,” and the elder pointed straight at Amrod.
Lentissë flapped her wings as Amrod jumped in his seated position, asking in startled unison, “Us?!”
“But… I do not have the Sight, not like Artanis and Findaráto, and despite being adept in Songs and craft, none in my father’s line has any talent in the mental and spiritual arts. We’re only marginally better at ósanwë, because we had each other since our begetting, Ambarussa and I,” Amrod denied.
“There are many ways other than the gift of Sight to divine what was, is, or will be; the study of the stars, the reflection of water, the fire’s play of light and shadow. I’ve no doubt your cousin is learning to hone one such element under the guidance of Queen Melian,” Iorthonel insisted. “And if you never See a single vision, you still have all the potentiality of becoming a witch. You understand the ways of the woods, you listen to the benign signs and warnings of every herb, root and tree. Have you not noticed that the wild may be listening to you in turn? Have you not wondered how your step goes unheard, your bright hair goes unseen even from your own brother’s senses when in the heat of the hunt? Did your mother not name you Umbarto?”
Amrod raised his hand up to his cheek where the burn scar of his ill-fated night at Losgar marked him, no longer identical with his twin.
“The prophecy of that name has already come to pass.”
The owl on Iorthonel’s shoulder huffed, “A name holds more meaning than a single prophetic moment.”
Amras thought it time to interject, and save his brother from the elder’s intense scrutiny. “Why Ambarussa alone, and not me as well?”
Iorthonel shifted her gaze to the other twin.
“For the simple reason that Sartë is not a bird,” she told him, glancing toward the wildebeest that had come up to stand beside Amras.
“I do not have an explanation as to why only elves with flighted birds can be witches, but we have observed over time that whenever someone showed signs of being a witch their daemon always settled in such form. We, the Quendi, are a people born under the stars, and we never stopped looking to the sky. I do not find it odd that so many elves’ daemons find the shape of a bird closest to their heart.”
“But, that does not mean you do not have a role,” she continued. “You are twin-born, your daemons are well matched. The oxpecker eats the insects drawn to fly about the wildebeest, saving it from illness and infection, and in turn the wildebeest wards off any predators that would eat the oxpecker. Being a witch can be dangerously vulnerable, especially when their daemon is flying far beyond elven sight. Having someone who has your back during such times is a precious thing.”
Lentissë flew up to settle atop Sartë’s back, and the Ambarussar shared a long moment of sinking into one other’s feelings through their twin bond.
“Now, observe,” Iorthonel instructed, and with a call to her daemon, “Haerdir!” the owl flew up into the starry sky and they watched him shrink on the horizon into the South.
For @feanorianweek Nerdanel and Feanor: the prompts are Reunion and Healing.
Feanor has returned to Valinor in the 4th Age. Aule has given him some apprentices, so he can pass on his skills (and learn patience). Feanor thinks most of his apprentices are giggly and silly. But one young elf is Feanor's pride and joy. Who could it be?
(Story under cut)
The Best Apprentice
By Kieran Agravane
Valinor in the Fourth Age
It was a fine summer’s day in Tirion. Sunlight streamed in through Nerdanel’s workshop window, illuminating her latest sculpture. It was a woodchuck, standing tall and proud on its back legs. Nerdanel smiled as she put her tools away. Up until recently, most of her statues and models had a melancholy air about them. But this woodchuck was different. Its eyes gleamed, it’s posture was confident and it even appeared to be grinning.
Because Nerdanel’s feelings often spilled over into her craft. And now, after thousands of years, she was feeling fully happy again. Because her troublesome, exasperating, much loved husband and sons had finally returned from the Halls of Mandos. Nerdanel was very busy; fussing over them, scolding them, making sure they stayed out of trouble.
And she was less lonely, and laughed many times a day again.
Nerdanel wiped her hands on a soft cloth, then put the woodchuck away safely in a cupboard. It was a commission for her nephew Finrod, who would collect it later that evening. Now that it was finished, Nerdanel did not have any tasks for the rest of the afternoon. So she decided to visit Feanor in his forge. And take him some dinner too.
He is no different from how I remember, Nerdanel thought fondly. He still becomes absorbed in his work, and forgets to eat. Then he becomes grumpy and anxious, and starts to think his skills are fading. When really he’s just hungry and cannot concentrate properly.
Nerdanel left her workshop, locking the door after her and popping the key in her apron pocket. She needed dinner too, but didn’t feel like cooking or preparing sandwiches. So she decided to buy something nice for her and Feanor from the bakery. It is a beautiful day too, Nerdanel thought, as she breathed in the fresh air. A walk will be lovely, after being cooped up inside all morning.
Nerdanel strolled along the street, whistling loudly and out of tune. It was a busy morning; with quite a few elves around, going about their business shopping. Some of them greeted Nerdanel in a friendly manner. Others lowered their ears at the noise she was making. But Nerdanel didn’t notice the rude ones, as she was too focused on the bakery. It was a newer building, but designed in the style of the older ones. Thus it fit in quite well. The window was large, to display the many delicious cakes and sweets within. And the bell on the door made a pleasant chime, as Nerdanel entered the shop.
“Good morning Lady Nerdanel,” the baker greeted her. “How may I help you today?”
“Good morning to you too!” Nerdanel said with a smile. “I have come to buy something nice; something suitable for dinner with my husband”.
“Aha, then I have much to choose from,” the baker said. He waved a hand towards his glass display cabinets, which were loaded with all kinds of delicious goods. “Do take you time, there is no rush”.
Nerdanel browsed the cabinets; admiring the treasures within. “Oh, some macaroons, I think,” she said. “And maybe a couple of iced buns. And perhaps two slices of this cheesecake? What flavour is it today?”
“That one is raspberry and black cherry”.
“Oh, that would be perfect! Just nice to go with a cup of tea!”
The baker nodded in agreement, and picked up a pair of tongs. “I quite agree,” he said, as he began placing the cakes inside paper bags. “You cannot go wrong with cheesecake. And how is Feanor, if I may be bold to ask? Is he adjusting well to life in...well life in general again”.
Nerdanel chuckled. “I believe so, yes. He is quite happy to spend his time either at home, or in the forge. My own Atar is keeping an eye on him at work. He makes sure that Feanor doesn’t try to create anything perilous. Which seems to be going well so far. Feanor does appear to have calmed down...just a little”.
“I am very glad to hear it,” the baker replied. He carefully folded over each paper bag. “But does it not vex Feanor, to be watched over in such a way?”
“Well it is not so much watching him; rather popping in now and then, just to check on him,” Nerdanel explained. “Also Aule suggested that Feanor be given some apprentices to train. He believed that it would be a good thing for Feanor to pass his skills onto other, younger elves”.
“Oh absolutely,” the baker agreed. Nerdanel placed her basket on the counter, and he loaded it with the filled bags. “Perhaps it is teaching him patience too?”
“I did not say that. You said that.” Nerdanel raised her eyebrows in amusement. “But I am not going to disagree with you”.
The baker burst out laughing, making the tops of the paper bags quiver. Nerdanel paid him and they wished each other a good day. Then she left the shop; the bell chiming again as she closed the door.
Feanor’s forge was not far from the bakery. Nerdanel took a short cut down a winding alleyway. The forge was off the main street, which suited Feanor quite well, as he liked privacy and quiet while he was working. (Of course, he was noisy. But he didn’t want to be distracted from the sounds of the city outside).
As Nerdanel approached the forge, she became thoughtful. She remembered how, just a few months ago, the Valar had informed her that Feanor and their sons were returning. Nerdanel had been excited but also wary. She could remember Feanor’s obsession with the Silmarils, and the darkness in him that Morgoth had brought forth. Nerdanel hoped that it would be her Feanor who returned, and not the unpleasant one.
Fortunately, she had had little to worry about. She and Feanor had cautiously greeted each other, and Nerdanel had noticed right away that he was healed. A little quieter, somewhat less fiery, and not at all dark. (Nerdanel had still scolded Feanor, then she had hugged him and welcomed him home).
And of course, Nerdanel knew what had helped to heal Feanor. Any time she asked him about this, he assured her it was a hundred percent his Atar and Amme, with Mandos being practically absent from his own Halls. Apparently, Mandos had done nothing, and had left Feanor’s rehabilitation completely up to Finwe and Mirirel. Nerdanel just smiled and gave Feanor her best Yes Dear Look, when Feanor told her this.
Nerdanel shook her head, coming out of her thoughts. She had reached the forge, and already she could hear the sound of hammering (and Feanor’s singing) from within. She pushed the door open, gasping as a great wave of heat flowed out.
There was Feanor, hammering away at what appeared to be a kettle body. His dark hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and his apron was covered in soot. He continued to sing, unaware that Nerdanel was there.
Nerdanel waited until Feanor put his hammer down, before calling to him. “Feanor! I have brought dinner!” she yelled.
Feanor started, and spun round. Seeing Nerdanel there, he beamed at her. He looked similar to how she remembered; although perhaps his features were a little softer. But his eyes were as bright as ever, and his enthusiasm undimmed.
“Oh splendid! I didn’t realise it was time to eat!” Feanor bounced over to Nerdanel and kissed her cheek. “Look, see here what I am making!” Feanor waved his gloved hand towards the kettle body. “It is for Turgon and Elenwe. Turgon accidentally dropped one of his favourite kettles, and dented it. He was distraught! I told him to bring it to me and I would repair it; make it as good as new. But Turgon worried and said he would remember the dent and…”
“Yes love, that is very good of you”. Nerdanel had to interrupt; she knew quite well that Feanor would talk about his work for ages if she did not. “But now it is time for dinner”. She held the basket up. “I bought us some cakes from the bakery”.
“How lovely!” Feanor said happily. “I shall put the kettle on and make us some tea. But not this one…” He shook his head at the half finished kettle. “It has no spout yet; it cannot pour”.
“Well that certainly won’t work,” Nerdanel agreed.
“Not at all!” Feanor opened a cupboard and took out another kettle. “This one is good. Actually...it is new too! One of my apprentices made it; he finished it last week. See the curve of the spout, and the…”
“Yes darling, it’s a wonderful kettle,” Nerdanel tried not to laugh. “But shall we use it now? You can tell me more about it while we have dinner”.
“Oh yes, of course,” Feanor agreed. He took the kettle over to the sink and began filling it. Nerdanel made a space on the workbench, then began taking plates and cups out of the cupboard.
“Speaking of your apprentices, how are you getting on with them?” she asked. “Are they working well, and learning well too?”
“Their work is...quite good,” Feanor replied. “When they actually work!” He frowned and shook his head; hair ribbon threatening to come loose.
“Most of them spend too much time giggling and chattering! It often feels as if I am babysitting a group of toddlers!”
“Oh dear!” Nerdanel’s lip quirked in gentle amusement. “Are they all that difficult?”
Feanor considered this for a moment. “Yes!” he decided. “They are silly, immature and do not give me any respect. They…”
Feanor was interrupted by the back door swinging open. A tall, pale young elf entered, carrying a large bag. Nerdanel guessed him to be one of the apprentices, as he wore an apron like Feanor’s and his dark hair was fastened back with a blue bow.
“I’m back! I brought the crystals, like you wanted,” he said to Feanor.
“Excellent!” Feanor said. He accepted the bag and had a quick peep at the contents. Colourful sparkles shone from within; their light dancing across the wall. Feanor nodded, then smiled.
“Yes, those are perfect. Well done, boy”. The younger elf turned pink, and tugged at his apron strap. Feanor patted his back, then turned to speak with Nerdanel again.
“I take back what I said before. This fellow here...he is my best pupil!”
Nerdanel chuckled. “He...doesn’t giggle and chatter too much then?”
“Not at all!” Feanor put an arm around the apprentice’s shoulders. “He works hard and listens well. He has a natural gift for metalwork. And when he has brilliant ideas of his own, he is not afraid to tell me”.
The young elf turned pinker still, but he looked very happy to receive such praise from Feanor.
“A wonderful find indeed,” Nerdanel smiled. She touched the apprentice on the arm. “What is your name, dear?”
“I am usually called Maeglin,” he replied, quite seriously.
“Maeglin?” Nerdanel stared at Feanor in surprise. And then delight. Feanor looked incredibly smug.
“Yes love,” he confirmed. “The Maeglin. Son of Aredhel and Grandson of Anaire!”
Maeglin had to smile at this. Nerdanel gave Feanor a Look.
“Ahem. Feanor...”
“Oh yes,” Feanor corrected himself. “Great-grandson of Atar, nephew of Fingon and Argon and…”
“Feanor! I’ll take your dinner and give it to Celebrimbor in a minute!” Nerdanel threatened.
“Could I have it instead?” Maeglin asked. “Uncle Feanor works me very hard”.
“Maeglin, you wound me!” Feanor gave the boy his best puppy eyes. “And after I have been praising you to your Aunt all this time too”.
“I am considering it…” Nerdanel said, keeping a tight hold on the dinner basket.
“Alright, alright!” Feanor held up his hands, laughing. “My brother contributed a small amount of his own fea towards Maeglin!”
“A small amount? Apart from his eyes, Maeglin looks like a perfect copy of Fingolfin,” Nerdanel said.
“I do rather,” Maeglin agreed, admiring his reflection in the new kettle.
“...you are JUST as bad as my husband,” Nerdanel tried to scold Maeglin, but she laughed instead.
“Well, he is my best apprentice. I have to teach him everything I know,” Feanor teased.
“Shush, you!” Nerdanel leaned over, kissing Feanor on his sooty cheek. “Now, put that new kettle to use, and I’ll unpack our dinner. There’s plenty enough for three!”
I was always told I was presented to the court when I was a month old, but the same cannot be said of Grandfather. He came immediately when he'd heard Mother was in labour. It was said that he rushed from the castle in naught but his trousers and a dressing robe, forgoing the use of shoes or boots.
When he arrived, all dishevelled and trailing dirt into the manor. It was our cook who greeted him. The poor male had been on his way out when Mother's labour began. Father had asked him to stay while he sent a stable boy to fetch the high king.
Grandfather rushed up the stairs as our cook directed him to Mother and Father's room. He burst into the room as Mother let out a massive scream. As she did, I slid right out and into my Father's awaiting arms.
Grandfather rushed over to Mother and grabbed her hand, giving her praise for doing so well as I drew my first breath and screamed.
Grandfather was the first to hold me after Father. The warmth I'd felt being in his arms, the light he brought to this world, to our family, was strength disguised. I'd felt all of that while listening to his heart beat with joy.
I don't remember much from that time, being so little and new to the world, but I do remember the love flowing from him when he held me. It was a feeling one could drown in.
As I grew, that feeling never stopped, even as I became the same height as him.
“Do you miss him?” Tauriel sleepily asks.
“Everyday.” I sadly smile, pulling her closer, while I try not to fall off her bed. “I wish you could have met him,”
“One day I will, one day,” Tauriel mutters as she drifts off to sleep. I slowly wiggle my arm out from under her and pull the blanket over her.
One of these days, I will tell her the truth, but today is not that day. Until then, I wish her the sweetest dreams.
Fem!Feanor x Nerdanel written for @feanorianweek day 7!
—
Feanor is taken under Mahtan’s wing, on the understanding that she model for his daughter, Nerdanel–the greatest sculptor in Tirion.
—
A house that is dark is half a house and a house that is full of noise is too much of everything. A house that is quiet–well Feanor would not know about that.
There are rarely moments of extreme darkness in Finwe’s halls, for they are too close to the Trees and even as they wax and wane the light they give off is bright enough to turn Feanor’s eyelids red. Now, she is alone, and her chambers glow with that silvery mix of Telperion and firelight, Findis cries seem to echo across the whole of the world, where Feanor sits out of reach–Finwe’s attention does not stretch that far.
Yet it is…well. It is well because Feanor has her mind on other things. The tendons of her wrist mold and grow as the evenings and days are spent beside Mahtan, forcing things into shape. And mornings, when the land is barren of even the slightest of sighs, Nerdanel shapes her.
It has been many weeks since the first meeting. The parchment has turned to limestone for the moment, granite after Feanor suspects. Words between them have been brief, subjected to demands of movement and soft questions about how harsh Mahtan has been in the forge–though Feanor does not think Nerdanel cares all too much. She smiles often when she hears Mahtan has indeed been stern.
The memory of the cruel gleam of teeth, of white-dusted hands gripping shards of stone, cut through the light of Feanor’s room. Everything is shaded in the dust of Nerdanel’s workshop, a fine shadow like a cloud, Feanor feels her body arch towards the vision.
Embracing the desire rippling across the membranes of her skin, Feanor shuts her eyes, finding the vision imprinted like the Trees light–Nerdanel, chiseling out a figure from unyielding stone, there is laugh waiting in her throat, waiting for a tale on Feanor’s misfortune. Misfortune she will willingly turn out if it means the laugh will trickle like wine from her grimacing lips. There are many visions that come to Feanor, each coaxing a burn-like bliss that aches.
Fem!Feanor x Nerdanel written for @feanorianweek day 7!
—
Feanor is taken under Mahtan’s wing, on the understanding that she model for his daughter, Nerdanel–the greatest sculptor in Tirion.
—
A house that is dark is half a house and a house that is full of noise is too much of everything. A house that is quiet–well Feanor would not know about that.
There are rarely moments of extreme darkness in Finwe’s halls, for they are too close to the Trees and even as they wax and wane the light they give off is bright enough to turn Feanor’s eyelids red. Now, she is alone, and her chambers glow with that silvery mix of Telperion and firelight, Findis cries seem to echo across the whole of the world, where Feanor sits out of reach–Finwe’s attention does not stretch that far.
Yet it is…well. It is well because Feanor has her mind on other things. The tendons of her wrist mold and grow as the evenings and days are spent beside Mahtan, forcing things into shape. And mornings, when the land is barren of even the slightest of sighs, Nerdanel shapes her.
It has been many weeks since the first meeting. The parchment has turned to limestone for the moment, granite after Feanor suspects. Words between them have been brief, subjected to demands of movement and soft questions about how harsh Mahtan has been in the forge–though Feanor does not think Nerdanel cares all too much. She smiles often when she hears Mahtan has indeed been stern.
The memory of the cruel gleam of teeth, of white-dusted hands gripping shards of stone, cut through the light of Feanor’s room. Everything is shaded in the dust of Nerdanel’s workshop, a fine shadow like a cloud, Feanor feels her body arch towards the vision.
Embracing the desire rippling across the membranes of her skin, Feanor shuts her eyes, finding the vision imprinted like the Trees light–Nerdanel, chiseling out a figure from unyielding stone, there is laugh waiting in her throat, waiting for a tale on Feanor’s misfortune. Misfortune she will willingly turn out if it means the laugh will trickle like wine from her grimacing lips. There are many visions that come to Feanor, each coaxing a burn-like bliss that aches.
I was always told I was presented to the court when I was a month old, but the same cannot be said of Grandfather. He came immediately when he'd heard Mother was in labour. It was said that he rushed from the castle in naught but his trousers and a dressing robe, forgoing the use of shoes or boots.
When he arrived, all dishevelled and trailing dirt into the manor. It was our cook who greeted him. The poor male had been on his way out when Mother's labour began. Father had asked him to stay while he sent a stable boy to fetch the high king.
Grandfather rushed up the stairs as our cook directed him to Mother and Father's room. He burst into the room as Mother let out a massive scream. As she did, I slid right out and into my Father's awaiting arms.
Grandfather rushed over to Mother and grabbed her hand, giving her praise for doing so well as I drew my first breath and screamed.
Grandfather was the first to hold me after Father. The warmth I'd felt being in his arms, the light he brought to this world, to our family, was strength disguised. I'd felt all of that while listening to his heart beat with joy.
I don't remember much from that time, being so little and new to the world, but I do remember the love flowing from him when he held me. It was a feeling one could drown in.
As I grew, that feeling never stopped, even as I became the same height as him.
“Do you miss him?” Tauriel sleepily asks.
“Everyday.” I sadly smile, pulling her closer, while I try not to fall off her bed. “I wish you could have met him,”
“One day I will, one day,” Tauriel mutters as she drifts off to sleep. I slowly wiggle my arm out from under her and pull the blanket over her.
One of these days, I will tell her the truth, but today is not that day. Until then, I wish her the sweetest dreams.
For @feanorianweek Nerdanel and Feanor: the prompts are Reunion and Healing.
Feanor has returned to Valinor in the 4th Age. Aule has given him some apprentices, so he can pass on his skills (and learn patience). Feanor thinks most of his apprentices are giggly and silly. But one young elf is Feanor's pride and joy. Who could it be?
(Story under cut)
The Best Apprentice
By Kieran Agravane
Valinor in the Fourth Age
It was a fine summer’s day in Tirion. Sunlight streamed in through Nerdanel’s workshop window, illuminating her latest sculpture. It was a woodchuck, standing tall and proud on its back legs. Nerdanel smiled as she put her tools away. Up until recently, most of her statues and models had a melancholy air about them. But this woodchuck was different. Its eyes gleamed, it’s posture was confident and it even appeared to be grinning.
Because Nerdanel’s feelings often spilled over into her craft. And now, after thousands of years, she was feeling fully happy again. Because her troublesome, exasperating, much loved husband and sons had finally returned from the Halls of Mandos. Nerdanel was very busy; fussing over them, scolding them, making sure they stayed out of trouble.
And she was less lonely, and laughed many times a day again.
Nerdanel wiped her hands on a soft cloth, then put the woodchuck away safely in a cupboard. It was a commission for her nephew Finrod, who would collect it later that evening. Now that it was finished, Nerdanel did not have any tasks for the rest of the afternoon. So she decided to visit Feanor in his forge. And take him some dinner too.
He is no different from how I remember, Nerdanel thought fondly. He still becomes absorbed in his work, and forgets to eat. Then he becomes grumpy and anxious, and starts to think his skills are fading. When really he’s just hungry and cannot concentrate properly.
Nerdanel left her workshop, locking the door after her and popping the key in her apron pocket. She needed dinner too, but didn’t feel like cooking or preparing sandwiches. So she decided to buy something nice for her and Feanor from the bakery. It is a beautiful day too, Nerdanel thought, as she breathed in the fresh air. A walk will be lovely, after being cooped up inside all morning.
Nerdanel strolled along the street, whistling loudly and out of tune. It was a busy morning; with quite a few elves around, going about their business shopping. Some of them greeted Nerdanel in a friendly manner. Others lowered their ears at the noise she was making. But Nerdanel didn’t notice the rude ones, as she was too focused on the bakery. It was a newer building, but designed in the style of the older ones. Thus it fit in quite well. The window was large, to display the many delicious cakes and sweets within. And the bell on the door made a pleasant chime, as Nerdanel entered the shop.
“Good morning Lady Nerdanel,” the baker greeted her. “How may I help you today?”
“Good morning to you too!” Nerdanel said with a smile. “I have come to buy something nice; something suitable for dinner with my husband”.
“Aha, then I have much to choose from,” the baker said. He waved a hand towards his glass display cabinets, which were loaded with all kinds of delicious goods. “Do take you time, there is no rush”.
Nerdanel browsed the cabinets; admiring the treasures within. “Oh, some macaroons, I think,” she said. “And maybe a couple of iced buns. And perhaps two slices of this cheesecake? What flavour is it today?”
“That one is raspberry and black cherry”.
“Oh, that would be perfect! Just nice to go with a cup of tea!”
The baker nodded in agreement, and picked up a pair of tongs. “I quite agree,” he said, as he began placing the cakes inside paper bags. “You cannot go wrong with cheesecake. And how is Feanor, if I may be bold to ask? Is he adjusting well to life in...well life in general again”.
Nerdanel chuckled. “I believe so, yes. He is quite happy to spend his time either at home, or in the forge. My own Atar is keeping an eye on him at work. He makes sure that Feanor doesn’t try to create anything perilous. Which seems to be going well so far. Feanor does appear to have calmed down...just a little”.
“I am very glad to hear it,” the baker replied. He carefully folded over each paper bag. “But does it not vex Feanor, to be watched over in such a way?”
“Well it is not so much watching him; rather popping in now and then, just to check on him,” Nerdanel explained. “Also Aule suggested that Feanor be given some apprentices to train. He believed that it would be a good thing for Feanor to pass his skills onto other, younger elves”.
“Oh absolutely,” the baker agreed. Nerdanel placed her basket on the counter, and he loaded it with the filled bags. “Perhaps it is teaching him patience too?”
“I did not say that. You said that.” Nerdanel raised her eyebrows in amusement. “But I am not going to disagree with you”.
The baker burst out laughing, making the tops of the paper bags quiver. Nerdanel paid him and they wished each other a good day. Then she left the shop; the bell chiming again as she closed the door.
Feanor’s forge was not far from the bakery. Nerdanel took a short cut down a winding alleyway. The forge was off the main street, which suited Feanor quite well, as he liked privacy and quiet while he was working. (Of course, he was noisy. But he didn’t want to be distracted from the sounds of the city outside).
As Nerdanel approached the forge, she became thoughtful. She remembered how, just a few months ago, the Valar had informed her that Feanor and their sons were returning. Nerdanel had been excited but also wary. She could remember Feanor’s obsession with the Silmarils, and the darkness in him that Morgoth had brought forth. Nerdanel hoped that it would be her Feanor who returned, and not the unpleasant one.
Fortunately, she had had little to worry about. She and Feanor had cautiously greeted each other, and Nerdanel had noticed right away that he was healed. A little quieter, somewhat less fiery, and not at all dark. (Nerdanel had still scolded Feanor, then she had hugged him and welcomed him home).
And of course, Nerdanel knew what had helped to heal Feanor. Any time she asked him about this, he assured her it was a hundred percent his Atar and Amme, with Mandos being practically absent from his own Halls. Apparently, Mandos had done nothing, and had left Feanor’s rehabilitation completely up to Finwe and Mirirel. Nerdanel just smiled and gave Feanor her best Yes Dear Look, when Feanor told her this.
Nerdanel shook her head, coming out of her thoughts. She had reached the forge, and already she could hear the sound of hammering (and Feanor’s singing) from within. She pushed the door open, gasping as a great wave of heat flowed out.
There was Feanor, hammering away at what appeared to be a kettle body. His dark hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and his apron was covered in soot. He continued to sing, unaware that Nerdanel was there.
Nerdanel waited until Feanor put his hammer down, before calling to him. “Feanor! I have brought dinner!” she yelled.
Feanor started, and spun round. Seeing Nerdanel there, he beamed at her. He looked similar to how she remembered; although perhaps his features were a little softer. But his eyes were as bright as ever, and his enthusiasm undimmed.
“Oh splendid! I didn’t realise it was time to eat!” Feanor bounced over to Nerdanel and kissed her cheek. “Look, see here what I am making!” Feanor waved his gloved hand towards the kettle body. “It is for Turgon and Elenwe. Turgon accidentally dropped one of his favourite kettles, and dented it. He was distraught! I told him to bring it to me and I would repair it; make it as good as new. But Turgon worried and said he would remember the dent and…”
“Yes love, that is very good of you”. Nerdanel had to interrupt; she knew quite well that Feanor would talk about his work for ages if she did not. “But now it is time for dinner”. She held the basket up. “I bought us some cakes from the bakery”.
“How lovely!” Feanor said happily. “I shall put the kettle on and make us some tea. But not this one…” He shook his head at the half finished kettle. “It has no spout yet; it cannot pour”.
“Well that certainly won’t work,” Nerdanel agreed.
“Not at all!” Feanor opened a cupboard and took out another kettle. “This one is good. Actually...it is new too! One of my apprentices made it; he finished it last week. See the curve of the spout, and the…”
“Yes darling, it’s a wonderful kettle,” Nerdanel tried not to laugh. “But shall we use it now? You can tell me more about it while we have dinner”.
“Oh yes, of course,” Feanor agreed. He took the kettle over to the sink and began filling it. Nerdanel made a space on the workbench, then began taking plates and cups out of the cupboard.
“Speaking of your apprentices, how are you getting on with them?” she asked. “Are they working well, and learning well too?”
“Their work is...quite good,” Feanor replied. “When they actually work!” He frowned and shook his head; hair ribbon threatening to come loose.
“Most of them spend too much time giggling and chattering! It often feels as if I am babysitting a group of toddlers!”
“Oh dear!” Nerdanel’s lip quirked in gentle amusement. “Are they all that difficult?”
Feanor considered this for a moment. “Yes!” he decided. “They are silly, immature and do not give me any respect. They…”
Feanor was interrupted by the back door swinging open. A tall, pale young elf entered, carrying a large bag. Nerdanel guessed him to be one of the apprentices, as he wore an apron like Feanor’s and his dark hair was fastened back with a blue bow.
“I’m back! I brought the crystals, like you wanted,” he said to Feanor.
“Excellent!” Feanor said. He accepted the bag and had a quick peep at the contents. Colourful sparkles shone from within; their light dancing across the wall. Feanor nodded, then smiled.
“Yes, those are perfect. Well done, boy”. The younger elf turned pink, and tugged at his apron strap. Feanor patted his back, then turned to speak with Nerdanel again.
“I take back what I said before. This fellow here...he is my best pupil!”
Nerdanel chuckled. “He...doesn’t giggle and chatter too much then?”
“Not at all!” Feanor put an arm around the apprentice’s shoulders. “He works hard and listens well. He has a natural gift for metalwork. And when he has brilliant ideas of his own, he is not afraid to tell me”.
The young elf turned pinker still, but he looked very happy to receive such praise from Feanor.
“A wonderful find indeed,” Nerdanel smiled. She touched the apprentice on the arm. “What is your name, dear?”
“I am usually called Maeglin,” he replied, quite seriously.
“Maeglin?” Nerdanel stared at Feanor in surprise. And then delight. Feanor looked incredibly smug.
“Yes love,” he confirmed. “The Maeglin. Son of Aredhel and Grandson of Anaire!”
Maeglin had to smile at this. Nerdanel gave Feanor a Look.
“Ahem. Feanor...”
“Oh yes,” Feanor corrected himself. “Great-grandson of Atar, nephew of Fingon and Argon and…”
“Feanor! I’ll take your dinner and give it to Celebrimbor in a minute!” Nerdanel threatened.
“Could I have it instead?” Maeglin asked. “Uncle Feanor works me very hard”.
“Maeglin, you wound me!” Feanor gave the boy his best puppy eyes. “And after I have been praising you to your Aunt all this time too”.
“I am considering it…” Nerdanel said, keeping a tight hold on the dinner basket.
“Alright, alright!” Feanor held up his hands, laughing. “My brother contributed a small amount of his own fea towards Maeglin!”
“A small amount? Apart from his eyes, Maeglin looks like a perfect copy of Fingolfin,” Nerdanel said.
“I do rather,” Maeglin agreed, admiring his reflection in the new kettle.
“...you are JUST as bad as my husband,” Nerdanel tried to scold Maeglin, but she laughed instead.
“Well, he is my best apprentice. I have to teach him everything I know,” Feanor teased.
“Shush, you!” Nerdanel leaned over, kissing Feanor on his sooty cheek. “Now, put that new kettle to use, and I’ll unpack our dinner. There’s plenty enough for three!”
